


dance with the devil on your back

by dreadpiratewatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Couch Cuddles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, John Loves Sherlock, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Kinda, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Mutual Pining, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, No Mary, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD Sherlock, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Requited Love, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Loves John, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a lot of cuddling because they both need it, but it will have the happiest ending ever, kinda slow, lots of pining, regular updates, seriously just a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns after his two years of dismantling Moriarty's network, and is... Fine. Completely fine. </p><p>Mycroft is worried he's not. John is angry that he is. But the network is gone, and John is safe, and they're together, kind of, so everything's okay.</p><p>So why can't he sleep?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO AO3!
> 
> Goddamn, it's been a long fucking time since I've posted anything! I'm so sorry it's been so long it's been really crazy. I have a job, and I'm working a LOT, supporting most of my family, and it's been slightly horrendous on my mental health, so I took a breath from writing for a while, for my own safety, and I know a few of you probably aren't too happy with me, so I'm sorry about that, but thank you all for being patient. This is going to be another multi-chapter fic, with regular updates, I swear, I don't leave people hanging. Often. 
> 
> ANYWAY, thank you all so much for all of the constant support, even though you never really knew what was going on with me, but i PROMISE that I have many ideas and stories in the works, and I will be updating more, so thank you for being patient and understanding, it really means a lot. 
> 
> So, I hope you all enjoy this, please leave me all the feedback you can, I love your comments, even if I'm terrible at answering. I love you all, you're so, so wonderful, and I can't wait to hear from you later!
> 
> -Stevie
> 
> **VERY IMPORTANT P.S.** For those who recognize this, the title HAS been changed, it was originally titled There Alright, but I changed it, so I PROMISE IT IS THE SAME STORY, JUST RETITLED, this is not a repost or anything, this is me just being indecisive about titles, but I'm happier with this one. ONWARD.

He doesn't remember what it's like to sleep.

He remembers darkness, and a cold stone floor, but he does not remember sleep.

His eyes are heavy and tired, and they ache, whether from the tears from the night before, or from the lack of sleep, but they hurt. It hurts to open them. It hurts to do anything. His entire body is in agony, from the terrible pounding in his head, to the burning of his muscles, and the stinging in his back from where they whipped him. 

 _Serves you right. Think before you speak, svin' ya_ _._ The tall one had hissed before spitting on him. He had felt the wetness of it hit him on the side of his neck, and he had wanted nothing more than to wipe the filth of it away, had he not been shackled to the wall. Then the tall one had said something about light, and walked out. His broken, pathetic mind could not be half bothered to translate the Russian, and then he was gone, and he was alone. 

 _Svin' ya._ That was what they called him. It translated to pig, but they used it to mean swine. They call him that because he's dirty, and he knows that. He feels it. The grime and the filth that covers his body, he feels it all. He feels the filth deep in his wounds, from the slices on his back to the open gashes on his face and arms and torso. Sweat from the days left in the hot cell while they left him on the very edge of madness with the heat while they denied him water. Dirt and sand from the floor where they left him to rot, never once letting him sleep. Dried blood. Saliva. Sometimes they'd piss on him too, just to shame him. 

Today was worse. They had taken turns whipping his already shredded back, and then, before he had even had time to recover from that, they were rubbing dirt in his fresh wounds. He never screamed, and that made them angry, so they had gone down their favorite route; beating. Every kick, every punch, every blow to his body feeling harder and much more painful than the last.

He wonders when they're going to kill him. 

He wishes they would. 

He hears the door open again, and he feels an ice cold sense of dread fall over his body as he waits for the pain to come. 

It never does.

Maybe they think he's unconscious.

He suppresses a shudder when the tall one presses his fingers (he would recognize them anywhere) to the wrong place on his throat, and he holds his breath, hoping he'll just leave. The tall one stays there for a moment, then pulls his hands away, and shouts a command in Russian. 

Sherlock still holds his breath. 

Almost automatically, another group of men swarm his hanging body and unchain his hands from the restraints. It feels almost murder on his aching limps, but he makes no sound, and allows himself to curl limply into their unfriendly arms. They drag him painfully from the room and across the stone floor of their hiding place, allowing him to fall on rocks and scrape up his knees. His head is hanging, and they cannot see him gritting his teeth. 

He hears the metallic swing of the door as it's opened, and the first thing he feels is pulsing heat of the sunlight on his shoulders. It only lasts for a second, and then the rough hands that hold his body up tighten, and he's lifted out of the light, and thrown carelessly into the cold metal flooring of a van that smells like bleach.

He silently wonders how much blood has been spilled on it before. 

They throw a tarp over him-which he is thankful for, as he can allow himself to breathe a little, and then the van jerks, and they're driving. He's too tired to calculate where they're going. He doesn't stay conscious for long. 

**_________________**

When he wakes again, he is alone, and he feels nothing but sand against his body. 

Sherlock wills his eyes to open, and realizes that his captors had dumped him. They had assumed he was dead, due to the tall one's stupidity, and they took his body and dumped it somewhere. Weakly, he pushes himself up, and sees nothing but sand in every direction. The sight of it makes his weak heart flutter in panic.

He had no way to contact Mycroft, as they had taken his phone, and disabled any other way of communication toward anyone, so Mycroft had no clue where he was. Every instinct he has is telling him him to just stay put, that Mycroft will find him, but he decides not to listen. 

It takes several minutes for Sherlock to gain the strength to stand. His body is completely drained of energy, and the pain in his back is almost unbearable, and the hot sun makes the burning sensations worse, but it's almost nothing compared to the excruciating pain in head and his ribs. He knows something is broken, or at the very least, cracked. He wishes for clothing. Upon his capture, he had been stripped of everything except a pair of ripped khakis, and was left barefoot and shirtless, completely exposed against the dirt and the sun. It's torturous and terrifying. Part of him wishes they would have killed him.

 _Come on,_ the voice he loves most encourages.  _You can do it. Come home to me._

Sherlock knows he can't let that voice down. 

That voice gives him strength to leave.

So, he locks his arms protectively across his torso, and looks toward the blazing sun, and eventually, Sherlock Holmes pushes his legs forward, and he trudges slowly across the sand.

**_________________**

It's growing dark when he finally collapses from the pain, his whole body limp, and his face pressed into the ground.

 _Get up, Sherlock, come on! Don't give up on me!_  The voice sounds panicked, and for moment, he swears he feels someone push against his shoulder, as if to roll him over.  _Don't die on me, Sherlock, come on! Don't give in, you're stronger than this!_

He can't. He can't. 

But, just as his eyes begin to slide close, and the voice begins to fade, the sound of beating helicopter blades starts to echo across the desert.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you so much for all of the wonderful feedback on this fic, I'm so excited to be back, and I'm so happy you guys are enjoying this. I'm also sorry for the late update. I was hoping to update last night, but I got off of work REALLY late, and was feeling horribly uninspired and just plain exhausted, so I hope this makes up for it! 
> 
> I hope to hear from you guys some more! 
> 
> -Stevie

Sherlock's body feels heavy and weighted down, like he's drowning deep under a thick blanket of water, instead of the desert he had been in before. He's warm. There's no pain. His heartbeat is calm, and slowing down. Drowning had been the wrong word before. He is not drowning. He is floating.

_So this is what death feels like._

And as he floats through the calming waters, he dreams of home. He dreams of Baker Street, with the seventeen steps he walks up and down day after day, and the smiley on the wall. He dreams of bright mornings in the kitchen, and the sounds of rustling paper and laptop keys. He smells Mrs. Hudson's freshly baked biscuits downstairs, and he hears the crowded London streets outside He dreams of late nights on in the living room after cases while the adrenaline wears off. He misses Baker Street. But, 221B is a flat, and nothing more. Home, to him, is much more. 

Home to him is warm jumpers (that are frankly hideous sometimes), hot tea, and a blog that he's almost embarrassed to admit that he likes. Home to him is happiness and comfort in his own skin, knowing he doesn't have to be anything but himself. Home to him is less than six feet tall, and has a soft tenor voice that can calm hurricanes, should he feel the need. To him, John Watson is home. John Watson, who is so completely ordinary that he should be boring, but is so, so unbelievably not. Two long years have made him homesick. 

_Too bad you're never going home._

At that thought, Sherlock's heart becomes erratic. Suddenly the surface becomes much closer than he remembers it being, and he breaks through the thick water where everything is white and he can't see, but he can hear frantic voices and a loud, shrill beeping sound, but over everything else, he hears one voice that he knows he recognizes in the back of his head.

_"Sherlock."_

He tries to focus in on the voice, but it's muffled against everything else. He feels something thick enter his veins, and suddenly the white room becomes blurred around the edges. In the back of his head, he knows what it is, but he can't-

_"Sherlock."_

Everything starts to fall. He sees everything at once; the rooftop of Bart's, Baker Street, Serbia, the tall one's face as he delivers blow after blow to his body, John's horrified expression as he watched him fall... John. 

_John._

John would be so angry. 

John would be so angry if he left him. Again. 

He tries to fight it. He tries so hard to fight it, but soon the darkness takes over the edges of his vision, and soon, he cannot see at all, but he hears the voice still trying to pull him back. 

_"Sherlock!"_

**_________________**

The first thing Sherlock notices when he wakes up is that there is something taped under his nose, and it's uncomfortable. The second thing he notices is that it's cooler than where he was before. The third is that he's not alone. 

Sherlock forces his eyes to open, and glances around at the small, graying hospital room he's in. The sun is still out, but the blinds have been shut, probably to allow him to sleep without the light to disturb him. He has no idea what time it is, but he guesses mid-afternoon. The posters and charts on the walls are all written in German, and he can see the name of the private hospital he's in at the bottom of the page.  _Zürich. Interesting._

His mind is still a tad blurry around the edges of the details, but other than that, he's not in as much pain as he was.  _Morphine._ He realizes, was what they had pumped him with earlier, when he was still sort of under. There's still a dull ache in his back from the whipping, but it's not nearly as bad as it was earlier either. His chest still feels a bit tight, most likely from the injury to his rib, and even under the white hospital gown, he knows he's positively covered in cuts and bruises and burns. Though, he certainly does feel much better. Groggy, but not immobile.

He becomes aware once again of the presence of another person in the room with him, and very slowly (as it's a bit painful to do so) turns his head to the right, and almost smiles at the sight of Mycroft sitting in the horrible metal chair beside his bed with his nose buried in a magazine. He looks disgusted and utterly bored out of his skull with what he's reading, and rightfully so, as Sherlock can't imagine why the press is so interested in celebrity affairs either. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but his throat is so utterly dry that he can't even attempt to get the words out, and he lets loose a painful cough that sends sharp pain rocketing through his rib cage. He winces, and lays his head back against the pillow in attempt to get his breathing under control. 

Mycroft lowers the magazine just enough for Sherlock to see his eyes shoot to his face, but he says nothing as Sherlock reaches for the cup of half melted ice chips on the table. beside him, and he soon goes back to his reading.  

The cold water feels like heaven on his bone dry throat. He can't remember the last time he had been allowed water. He sets the cup aside, and glances back over at his brother. "How long was I out?" He asks first. 

The elder Holmes looks at him over his magazine again, then closes it with a sigh, throws it on the table, and scrubs a hand down his face. "About two weeks." 

Sherlock feels his heart skip a beat.  _That long?_

Seeing his brother's confusion, Mycroft nods. "The extent of your injuries were to great to be dealt with without the aid of a chemically induced coma. You woke up, once, and we thought you were fine, but then you... Panicked, I suppose, and they had to put you under again. I had been trying to get you to wake up before." 

Mycroft's words settle in his mind, and suddenly a few things click into place. It makes sense for Mycroft to be there, he remembers his voice shouting his name while he had been 'drowning', as he remembers thinking it was before, when in reality, it was the drug concoction they had put him on. He suppresses a shudder. "How beat up am I?" 

"Well, between your dangerously high fever, raging infection, severe dehydration, cracked ribs, slight blood loss, and the remainder of the more minor injuries, I'm honestly surprised you managed to walk five miles in the desert and still be alive." Mycroft replies rather bitterly. 

"They thought I was dead, and dumped my body, that doesn't count." 

His brother gave him a strange look. "No, Sherlock, I'm talking about  _after_ they dumped your body. You walked five miles from where they left you, in the wrong direction, mind you. That's why it took us forever to find you." 

Sherlock considers this. He didn't realize he had walked that far. It hadn't seemed like five miles. Then, something else clicks. "How  _did_ you find me?" 

"One of my men had infiltrated the base right after they had taken you away, and he managed to get a hold on where they were taking you and contact us before you got too far." Mycroft bitter expression suddenly falls, and an almost haunted look pulls at the corners of his eyes. "I was certain we were already too late when they took you away. They told him you were dead, and I was certain I was going looking for a corpse, but when you weren't there, we saw your footprints in the sand leading away from the spot you had been dumped, and I knew that somehow, you were still alive. We went to find you after that. I wasn't going home without you." His brother says, his tone stern, though his eyes were brighter than before.

Sherlock shivers at the mention of the word 'home'. Home sounds fantastic. Euphoric, almost.

But, as quickly as the bubbly feeling comes, it fades, and fear nestles it's way into his veins, and settles in the pit of his stomach. His heart rate picks up, and the monitor begins beeping frantically. Mycroft's eyes widen in a panic, and he reaches out to press the call button for the nurse. "No!" Sherlock gasps out over the beeping sound, and the pain in his chest. 

"Sherlock, you're in pain, you need to relax, you need medication." 

"I'm fine, Mycroft, please, I don't want anymore." The detective almost begs. He really doesn't want the drugs, he needs to think. He needs to be awake. 

Thankfully, instead of protesting, Mycroft purses his lips, and pulls away, but does not take his eyes off of his younger brother. "Are you feeling anxious?" 

He shakes his head. "No." 

Mycroft, however, laughs at him. "Oh, little brother, in all of your years upon this Earth, have you ever been able to lie to me?" 

"Yes, actually." 

"Oh, really? When?"

"Well, it wouldn't make sense for me to tell the truth now, would it?"

"Sherlock." His brother warns him, his voice suddenly dangerously low and authoritative. "What is it?" 

Sherlock takes a deep breath as his heart rate returns to normal, and he turns his gaze away from his brother to the ceiling. "I failed, Mycroft. I didn't finish the job, and they knew I was connected to you, that's why they wanted me dead. That was my last mission, and I failed it." 

The elder Holmes was quiet for a moment, then he shook his head. "No, Sherlock, you didn't fail. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. Don't worry about the aftermath. My men will take care of the rest of it while you recover." 

"But, what-" 

"We will take care of everything, you needn't worry. And as far as the British government is concerned, your name is cleared." 

 _That_ strikes a chord. 

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath, while the rest of his body suddenly feels shocked full of electricity. "So, you mean... It's over?" He whispers, unable to believe it himself. 

His brother smiles at him from his place in the chair. "Yes, Sherlock. It's over. As soon as you're well enough, you're going home." 

_Home._

The word itself is nearly enough to stop his heart. 

After two long years, Sherlock is finally going home. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I am so sorry it's taken so long, but, I just got a new job, and I've been stressed to hell about work and school and money (because everything just HAS to cost money), so it's been difficult to update, but, I did post two new fics on top of this which were already pre-written, so I hope that's alright. 
> 
> ALSO, I know this chapter is a lot of just me rambling, and it may be a bit boring, but I PROMISE that the story will pick up again. Thanks again for all of your support and love, DESPITE the title change and the long wait, but, I hope this makes up for everything. 
> 
> I love you all! 
> 
> -Stevie

The first time he has a nightmare, he doesn't realize that that's what it is. It's so vivid, and so real, but so utterly ridiculous that it had no reason to be as terrifying as it it. 

He's sleeping in his hospital bed, the heart monitor slow and steady, the room darkened, and everything is peaceful. He's not quite asleep yet, just hovering in that place between sleeping and being awake and he knows that he's alone. He hears a fan from somewhere not too far away, and allows the soft humming to lull him to sleep, choosing to focus on it instead of the monotone beeping from the heart monitor. From the other side of the bed, he hears the door of his room open, and his initial thought is  _Mycroft is back,_ but when the air around him suddenly becomes heavy and tense, Sherlock knows it isn't his brother. 

He doesn't dare move, out of hope that whoever it is will just go away. 

There is no sound for a moment, then the door closes, and he tries to remember how to breathe.  _They're gone._ He tells himself.  _They're gone, stop being paranoid._

Then, there's the distinct sound of thick leather boots scraping across the floor, and he knows he's miscalculated. 

Sherlock holds his breath, and tries to keep his heart rate down, but he knows that the sudden increase of his heart monitor has giving him away...

The intruder climbs up into his bed and straddles his hips, immediately taking the wind out of him, and his eyes fly open, right as the intruder covers his mouth with his hand, and removes the heart rate monitor from his finger to slide it on his own. The intruder is heavy, making it incredibly difficult to breathe and Sherlock's eyes flash wildly around in the darkness as he searches for a face, but he can't see a thing. He tries to call out for help, but his mouth is covered by the intruder's and it comes out muffled. He tries to fight him off, but, somehow, in his weak attempt, the assailant grabs hold of his hands, and slams them down behind his head. "You don't want to do that." The voice growls from above him. 

Sherlock's blood suddenly turns to ice, and he suddenly feels like he can't move.  _That voice. No. No, it can't be him._

The assailant leans down and Sherlock suddenly sees the man's all-too-familiar eyes, cold and piercing and which make his stomach flip like he's going to be sick, and he tries so desperately to get away as tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes. He tries to scream, but the hand only tightens. "Think before you scream,  _svin' ya."_ The hand at his mouth moves down to his throat, and squeezes tightly, cutting off most of his desperate gasp for air, and man he recognizes as The Tall One leans down close to his face, close enough to brush his nose across the detective's cheek bone. Sherlock can feel his scruffy beard scrape across his skin, and he feels bile rise in his throat when the man presses his lips to his cheek as lightly as he can, just to intimidate. 

 _"Pl...ease."_ Sherlock tries to beg. 

The man pulls away from him, letting go of his hands, but keeps his left hand on the detective's windpipe, and suddenly is pressing a thick metal blade to Sherlock's stomach. He feels the icy serrated steel through his hospital gown, right over top of one of his wounds that had required stitches. He tries to take in a deep breath as he tries to understand why no one has come barging in yet, but then remembers the heart rate sensor is now on his assailant's hand, and he feels a sick sense of dread in his bones as he listens to the monitor, and realizes that the man's pulse hasn't risen at all at the same time the knife slides up his torso. 

 _It isn't real, it isn't real._ John's calming voice tries to tell him.  _It's only a dream, he can't hurt you._

 _Then why does it hurt?_ He wants to ask. The pain is back again, the pain from the beatings, the slices in his skin on his back, everything hurts again, and now, he can't breathe.

The Tall One laughs. "I should have never let you go." He raises the knife, and sends it plunging down into the detective's abdomen.

**_________________**

_"No!"_

Sherlock's scream echoes off of the walls of the hospital room, and he rockets forward as he gasps for air and searches his stomach for the knife. He was still partially in a dream, the room was still dark and he could still see little slivers of The Tall One's face. The blood is pounding in his head too loudly for him to hear anything but the residual sound of the switchblade sliding through his abdomen, and that alone is enough to make him feel ill. Strangely, though, there is no wound. He hears what sounds like his name, then feels a pair of hands at his shoulders, which send an icy electric shock through his veins, and he tries desperately to throw the intruder off by flailing wildly.

"Sherlock!" His brother's voice comes through the haze. "Sherlock stop it, open your eyes!"

At the sound of his brother's voice, his violent fantasy comes to an abrupt end, and he suddenly realizes where he is as he takes in the light pouring in from the windows, and the sound of the erratic heart monitor at his bedside. Sherlock swallows hard against the panic, and turns to face his older brother, who is standing next to him with one hand at his shoulder and the other at his arm, and watching him with anxious eyes. 

Sherlock tries to breathe. "Mycroft?" He whispers, his voice coming out weak and croaky like it had when he first woke up in the hospital almost two weeks prior. 

The elder Holmes nods at him slowly, and pulls his hands away at an almost snail-like pace, as if he's afraid to startle him. He sits back down in the awful chair, not once letting his gaze drift from his younger brother. "Nightmares, brother?" He inquires, though it sounds more like a matter-of-fact statement than a question. 

"I'm... not sure." He lies, though he isn't sure why he lies. 

Mycroft narrows his eyes. 

"I mean, I don't remember what it was about. It's already... faded... I guess." His voice trails off and he looks toward his hands that are neatly folded on top of the sheets. The heart monitor has finally gotten back to it's normal beeping, and when he looks down, he can see he's messed up some of his wiring, as well as thrashed the blanket on top of him halfway off of the bed. "Why didn't the doctors come running?" He asks.

"They did. But I sent them away, then tried to wake you up. I knew you were having a nightmare, and it wouldn't have ended well, had you awoken with a group of strangers in your face. The young nurse who always checks on you was the only one who took me seriously." His brother almost laughs. 

Sherlock tries to smile, but for some reason, it hurts. "When can I get out of here?" He asks. 

"Tuesday. If you're up for it. We plan on taking you back to the cottage in Sussex for-" 

"No." Sherlock protests. 

Mycroft gives him a strange look. "No?" 

The detective shakes his head. "No. I've been gone long enough. I just want to go home." He explains. 

"Technically, brother-" 

"Mycroft." 

His brother purses his lips, considering this. 

Two years has taken it's tole. Mycroft knows this, though he won't say it, but it has. After two years underground, dismantling the network, chasing down criminals, killing, being beaten, every single moment has brought the detective almost to his knees from exhaustion, and every single night, all he's been begging for was a chance to go home. He's tired. No, he's exhausted. His body is exhausted, from his muscles, to his bones (which makes him feel like he's eighty), to his mental exhaustion, and if he's honest, all he wants is to sleep for a hundred years. At home. At Baker Street. In his bed. With John Watson not too far away. Or beside him, or whatever. The thought makes his heart jump, which Mycroft notices, but says nothing, and suddenly all Sherlock can think about is John. 

"Mycroft, please." He begs, putting more urgency into the words than he had before. 

His brother sighs, and taps his umbrella against the floor like it's a gavel. "Fine. I suppose it couldn't hurt. I'll have to contact Mrs. Hudson... That'll be interesting." He mumbles to himself. "But, you'll have to stay an extra day here." 

The detective lets out an irritated whine, and tries not to argue with his brother. He's too tired to do that. "Fine." He mutters, annoyed. "Now get out, I want to sleep." 

"You just woke up."

"Yeah, but sleep deprivation is a form of torture, and after all of that, I'm exhausted."

Mycroft looks disturbed by this fact, but again, he says nothing, not even when Sherlock turns up his morphine, and when he falls asleep, he dreams of the first case with John Watson. It's his best dream in a long time.   

**_________________**

His good dreams turn into nightmares again very quickly. 

It's the same nightmare, he's sleeping, then The Tall One comes in and attacks him, kisses his cheek, chokes him... But, as the nights went on, the nightmares become more vivid, and more an more terrifying. The man becomes more brutal, choking him to death instead of stabbing him, or, he drags the knife along his skin, leaving tiny slices until he's bleeding all over the sheets, and The Tall One begins to mock him about crying. It's always scarier when the man morphs into someone else. Sometimes, when The Tall One leans down to whisper in his ear, his voice picks up a bone crushingly familiar Irish drawl, and when he looks up, Jim Moriarty has taken his place. It's always scarier when it's him. But, whether it's Moriarty, or The Tall One, he always says the same thing;  _"I should have never let you go."_

Eventually, Sherlock just stops trying to sleep. That seems easier than dreaming. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> Once again, I'm so, so, so sorry for the delay on the chapters, like I may have stated before, new job, and I work every day, and on top of that I've been very sick, and I know this chapter isn't the greatest, BUT, I am going to be writing more soon, because the next few chapters will be the reunion between John and Sherlock, and... It'll be be very interesting to say the least. Once again, I'm so sorry it's taken me so long, I feel terrible, but I promise you that the build-up will be worth it! ^^
> 
> Take care everyone, I hope you enjoy! I love you all!
> 
> -Stevie

The tube is crowded for a Monday. John Watson sits with his back heavily anchored to the back of the bench as he stares down at one particular tile in the metal floor while quiet chatter hangs around his head like a cloudy daze and the rickety tube shakes from the years of wear and tear on the tracks. It doesn't seem like May. It's far too cold, which is why the clinic was so busy because everyone has the flu or a cold or allergies they don't know how to deal with due to the erratic weather, so he was busier than normal. Which was nice, because it gave him something to do, no matter how boring. 

When his stop is called, John gets to his feet and shuffles out the door with two other people who all split away in different directions, and he ascends the concrete steps up toward the main roads without really paying much attention to anyone or anything, just slipping in and out of the crowds like a ghost. He doesn't carry a particularly strong stride, not anymore, and he walks like a man who could disappear, and would not be the least bit concerned.

His flat is not too far away. It's not much, just a tiny thing with open windows and lots of light pouring in, something he vaguely remembers Greg or Molly telling him would be good for him, to have the sunlight in his house. (He doesn't feel like it's done him much good, but what does he know about the therapeutic properties of sunlight?) He retrieves his mail and kicks his shoes off the moment he goes inside, absentmindedly rummaging through the bills and whatnot before throwing them on the table where he can ignore them, and he goes to make himself a cup of tea. He puts the kettle on the stove, he takes an apple from the fridge and a knife from the drawer, and he leans back against his counter, and he waits. 

Life moves slowly, and everything is always quiet, it seems. 

John's eyes fall to the newspaper clipping held to his refrigerator by a magnet, and an involuntary smile lifts at the corners of his mouth. He knows he should hate that picture by now, but it always manages to crack a smile on his face, even though it still hurts. 

 _Two years,_ He reminds himself.  _Going on three, now._

It doesn't feel like it was that long ago. 

But at the same time, it feels like centuries have passed him by. 

No matter how much time has passed, however, John sometimes still lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering  _why?_

The 'hat photograph', as Sherlock had dubbed it, is taped to the refrigerator door where it sits day after day, every day, causing him to look into the vibrant green eyes of the detective every time he goes for a drink. He loves that photograph, though everyone else has a much different opinion. Everyone would tell him to take it down because it "wasn't good for recovery" (they always use that word, too, that bothers him a lot), and for a while, he considered taking it down, but there's something about it that manages to make him smile, even though it aches. It always aches. 

Slowly, he reaches out and runs his fingers over the aging photograph, and sighs.  _I wish I could tell you how much I miss you. I wish you could hear it._

But... Life goes on. 

John Watson has always been the person to believe that, no matter what happened, life always went on. Time passes, you get older, you grow tired, and eventually... You forget. You don't forget the person, but you forget the pain. After all, if you have to live with it every single day of your life, can you  _really_ call it pain anymore? Furthermore, after how alive Sherlock made him feel, does it really make a difference if it hurts? It's not every day that you meet a person like Sherlock Holmes, whose brilliance and acceptance (and sheer dumb fucking luck, of course) cures an unfixable limp and makes a broken man feel like he's actually not as broken as he thinks. John Watson was withered with age and strained from war, and Sherlock was like glue, fixing him up and putting him back together again.  _I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

Then he left, and, like a rubber band had been snapped, John Watson was walking around London with a fresh new limp and a tremor in his hand. He didn't talk much about it, nor did he talk much about Sherlock Holmes, that is, until he woke up the night after the funeral, having just relived their first case together in a dream, and almost drank himself to death. Once he had sobered up, he went to Ella, and he almost said everything he should have said months before. He choked down his words, and hid them again, like they never meant a thing. He could do at least that for himself. 

Baker Street became too much after that. He tried for a while, but inevitably had to leave in the end. He packed his things, Mrs. Hudson assuring him that Sherlock's things could stay. It went unspoken that she wouldn't rent 221B out to anyone else. 

So, he moved. The house was bright and open and there was a garden outside, and a lovely old couple next door, and a single father with a beautiful three year old girl next door. He had lost his wife to cancer the year before. He had guessed about John losing someone close to him, and when he looked at him for the first time, he gave him this look that seemed to ask  _are you a widower too?_ He would have been angry about that, once upon a time, but not anymore. It might as well have been true. 

John Watson can honestly say that he never meant to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes. He never meant to do it at all, it just sort of happened. It started at the pool, he knows that much, seeing the way Sherlock looked at him, strapped to those bombs and ready to die with him or for him, whatever it took in that moment. The way Sherlock's eyes widened, and his breath caught around his name, and the way he swore he could hear the drumming of his heartbeat from across the pool. He knew from that moment that he was completely and utterly done for, and though he was almost certain that Sherlock didn't feel the same way, he was perfectly fine just being close enough to call himself his friend. It wasn't enough forever, but it was enough for the moment.

The kettle behind him began to steam and whistle on the stove, and John is shaken out of his nostalgic trance. He shakes his head and reaches for a mug in the cabinet, and pours the hot water over the bag, and without sparing the photograph more than another passing glance, he walks away, back into the living room, locking Sherlock away in his heart one more time. 

**_________________**

Sherlock wakes out of another nightmare to the feeling of someone shaking his shoulder, and his eyes snapped open, just as someone pulls away from him at an almost alarming speed. He pushes himself up a little too quickly with a loud gasping sound as he grabs at his stomach for the wound, like he always does when he wakes up, but as always, he finds none. 

"Mr. Holmes?" Comes a quiet voice from in front of him. 

Sherlock looks up and recognizes the intruder in his room as not being an intruder at all, and actually the nurse that always comes to check on him during the day. She has her arms raised in a defensive, yet calm position, and she's backed up quite a few feet from his bedside to give him space. She watches him cautiously, like she's waiting for him to speak. 

He doesn't. 

"You were having a nightmare, sir." She states. 

The detective stares her down, then eventually nods. He wants to say thank you, but doesn't know how to make his mouth work, until something dawns on him, the use of his real name. Mycroft has him under William Hart in the hospital logs, which makes him disgusted, hearing his dreaded first name. He pulls back into the hospital bed, heart already beginning to pound. He stupidly reaches for the bedside table and grabs a needle off of the tray and points it at her. "How do you know me?" He demands. 

The nurse, Emi, he remembers, lowers her hands, and smiles sweetly at him. "I am a fan. I used to follow the blog. I'd recognize your face anywhere. I knew you couldn't be dead." 

Her voice is kind and genuine, but it does nothing to help Sherlock's fear. "Did you tell anyone about me?" 

"No, of course not." Emi says, making him feel silly for worrying. "Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Holmes, don't you fret." 

For some reason, Sherlock trusts her. He isn't exactly sure why. She seems pretty non-threatening with her charming smile and her friendly attitude towards her job. He knows damn well how hard her job is, he remembers John complaining about the patients that he had dealt with at the clinic back when he still lived in London. He looks up at her, and sighs. "So, what's my verdict?" He asks. "When can I get out of this bed?" 

"Tonight. Your brother says you're quite eager to get home, and I don't blame you. Two years away would really make me homesick too." Emi replies, her bright baby blue eyes sparkling as she takes down his vitals. 

Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin.  _"Tonight?"_ He demands. 

Emi nods. "Sure, if you're feeling up to it. I just have to clear it with the doctor, but he always listens to me." 

"That's because he fancies you." He states without meaning to. His deductions have always been somewhat of a force of habit.  

The young nurse laughs, throwing her head back, but says nothing in response. When she's done, she smiles sweetly at him, and nods. "Alright, mister, you get some rest. I'll go clear you with the doctor, alright?" 

"Thank you." He answers quietly as she leaves. 

Sherlock leans back against the pillow in near shock. After two years away from home, he expects himself to feel overjoyed. He expects to be near ecstatic at the near thought of going home to Baker Street, being able to sleep in his own bed, being able to listen to Mrs. Hudson prattle on about unimportant things while he tries to work on cases, oh _god,_ he'll get to go on cases now! Although these last years have been basically one big case, he misses just a lowkey murder in the backstreets of London. He misses Lestrade pestering him about withholding evidence (or whatever), and Molly's shy-but-also-slightly-concerned smiles after she gives him some sort of body part to examine while John... Oh. 

John. 

_John._

John Watson should definitely be a reason to make him happy.

He fought for him.  All throughout his mission, he listened to John's voice in his mind, instructing him, calming him, telling him to come home, and by some miracle, it worked. He thought about cases together and tea in the morning, and maybe, someday, if he was lucky, maybe even casual touches here and there, and maybe, in the even further future, perhaps even kisses? The thought makes a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. He loves that idea. Kissing John Watson. He knows it'll take a long time, he has nearly three years of lost time to make up for, not to mention that John doesn't even know he's  _alive,_ but... He's going home. He's  _finally_ going  _home._ It should make him happy! 

But instead, all it does is make his stomach flip in fear. 

__________________

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO MY LOVELIES!!! I HAVE RETURNED!!!
> 
> Okay, so, you're probably sick of hearing this from me, but I'm going to say it again, because I feel fucking awful, and you guys deserve an explanation. Whether you choose to accept it as an excuse is up to you, but I feel terrible, so here goes. 
> 
> The last few months since my last update have been insane. My family is an on-again-off-again mess, more or less in shambles on occasion, leaving me working two jobs to support my siblings, plus, my car broke down, so I've been working almost every day to get up the money to fix it. On top of all of this, due to my fucked up family, my mental health hasn't been the greatest, and I just honestly haven't been able to find the motivation to write anything for a long time. There's been a lot of reading, but I can't feel inspired, and it's been really rough just to sit and write. I know it's a shitty excuse, but it's true. 
> 
> TL;DR, My fucking life is a fucking disaster, and I am a shitty author. 
> 
> Anyway, so, I know that this has been a long time coming, so I hope this update makes up for it. I'm feeling better now, and hopefully I'll be less busy, so, hopefully, I'll be able to write more. I hope. 
> 
> SO, for now, please enjoy this chapter, and I hope it lives up to your standards until I can write more. As always, I love you all so much, and I hope you enjoy!!
> 
> -Stevie

London greets Sherlock like an old friend as he strolls up Baker Street for the first time in nearly three years. Almost everything looks the same, from the cars on the streets to the flower beds, and everything feels like home, just as it should be. It's warm, almost too warm for his Belstaff, but he wears it anyway, and he doesn't mind the heat. Inside his right pocket, he grips the key that's been there since the last time he left 221B, tracing the ridges with his thumb as his heart begins to pound.

He hasn't been here in ages.

As he approaches the dark wooden door, he resists the urge to stroke the paint. He's missed that too. It takes him a minute to push the key in because his hands are shaking from a mixture of excitement and nerves, but at the sound of the lock turning and releasing, it all stops. He pushes the door open, and the familiar smells of the old wood and Mrs. Hudson's baking are in his nose already before he even has a chance to breathe correctly. The bottom floor of the flat is quiet. Mrs. Hudson must have left to give them time. 

The seventeen steps feel more like a steep mouth as he climbs, hand shaking on the railing, vision swimming, he looks like a mess and he knows it. He changes his mind about this once, twice, three times before actually reaching the last step, and suddenly he's on autopilot. He walks toward the door, and doesn't even bother to knock. John wouldn't mind. 

He hears the water running and the humming of Chuck Berry the moment he enters the flat.  _John's doing dishes,_ he realizes, and it sends a warm ache through his chest. John always hums old songs when he does dishes. It's just one more thing about him that Sherlock has fallen in love with. How could he not? 

Sherlock steps through the living room, and looks around. He takes in the messy coffee table that looks like it's filled with case notes still, after three years, and the two chairs that still sit in their spots, just as they're meant to be. The bookshelf is messy but organized, just as Sherlock left it. The smiley face on the wall is still bright yellow and covered in bullet holes, and it makes him smile. Nothing is different. Everything is the same. Sherlock hadn't expected it, though he isn't surprised. John would never change anything. Too many memories. Years ago, he would have turned up his nose, scoffed, and made fun of him for being sentimental, but not now. He loves it now. All of it. After all, how could he not?

He takes a step further into the room, and runs his fingers over the wallpaper as he makes his way to the kitchen, taking it all in like a priceless work of art. But Baker Street isn't art. It's home. It's always been home.

Sherlock's heart nearly stops when he sees John at the sink, humming, and making a mess of the soap. He can't help but watch for a few minutes, just to take in the sight of the man he loves, the one he hasn't seen in three years, doing the same things he's done since they met, like Sherlock never left him behind. It's almost too much. 

In the midst of all of his staring, he doesn't notice that John suddenly freezes where he stands, until the water is turned off, and John is turning around. For the briefest, most terrifying moment of Sherlock's life, he sees John's face, and thinks he doesn't recognize him, with the dead eyes that seems to bore holes in his face, looking through him, not at him. John looks good, for being three years older, if not just exhausted, but for a long time, his face doesn't change. Not even a little. 

The detective swallows hard. "John." 

That's when John falls back against the counter, eyes blown wide, and a gasp of air falling from his lips as he runs his fingers through his hair. "I've lost it. I've lost my bloody mind." He mutters. 

"No, John-" Sherlock surges forward to reach for him, but stops halfway. He has no right to touch John. He pulls away, and stares awkwardly at the floor instead. "John, I'm so sorry for what I did, but believe me when I say that there was no other way for me-" 

"Shut up. Just shut up." John hisses, and Sherlock flinches away. He knows he deserves the rage that's about to come.

That doesn't mean that he doesn't hate it. 

He hears John's footsteps as he walks across the kitchen to stand in front of Sherlock, so close that he can smell the warm, spicy scent of John's cologne, and it makes him fall in love a little more, because for all his Mind Palace is good for, nothing compares to the real thing. "Sherlock." John utters, his voice low and quiet. And oh, God, he's missed that voice. He suddenly feels a warm pressure on his cheek, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's John's hand, and he squeezes his eyes tighter. "Sherlock," John says again. "Sherlock, look at me." 

Sherlock does, opening his eyes, and locking his with John's. John's eyes are flickering back and forth, like he's memorizing every detail he can. John doesn't look angry. That's the most surprising thing. And just as Sherlock's about to say something, John takes a step back, and lets out a trembling breath. "You're alive." It isn't a question. 

Sherlock can only nod. 

_"Fucking hell."_

And suddenly, he's being crushed to John's chest, the doctor's strong arms holding him so tightly he can barely breathe, but he doesn't care, because it's  _John._ He suddenly feels like something in his heart has been opened, and warmth is suddenly being spread all across his chest, curling in his stomach and heating him from head to toe. It's the sense of longing for something lost that has finally been found, and in that moment, every cell in Sherlock Holmes' body ached from how overdue this all was, and he suddenly realizes that he was wrong before. Baker Street, while being the place he calls home, is nothing more than a house. A material place made of brick and wood and paint. But  _this..._ This is something totally new. Sherlock now knows  _exactly_ what it feels like to be home. Because here, standing in  _their_ flat, in  _their_ kitchen with John's arms around his back, tears falling on his shoulder, he buries his face in the crook of John's neck, breathes in the spicy smell of his cologne, and sighs, feeling all of his troubles melt away.  _I'm home,_ he thinks.  _I'm home._

John pulls away from him, his eyes rimmed with red, and he tries to glare, but it comes out half-arsed and looking silly, and Sherlock tries not to laugh. "You," He growls almost playfully. "Have a lot of explaining to do." 

This time, Sherlock does laugh. It's a breathless, watery sound that's followed by a sniffle, but it's a laugh nonetheless. He hasn't laughed in _ages_. "I know I do." 

John's face softens, and he reaches out, holding Sherlock's face in his hand while he strokes his thumb across his cheek, brushing away a tear. "God, I missed you." He whispers, pulling the detective in his arms again. 

"I missed you too." 

There's a slight pressure against his temple, and he leans into it. John says nothing after kissing him, and neither does Sherlock, but if John feels his smile against his throat, he certainly doesn't say anything. 

They stand like that for a while, standing in each other's arms, until a sharp knock at the door forcibly breaks them apart, and Sherlock grumbles at the loss. John chuckles and runs his thumb down his cheek once again. "Go put the kettle on, love, I bet it's Mrs. H wanting to know what all the noise is." 

Sherlock beams at the endearment, and quickly does as he's told while John goes to answer the door. He knows he's smiling, he can feel the strain of his cheeks from the force of the grin plastered on his face, like he's been painted that way. He can't help it, though. Nor does he want to. 

"Sherlock?" 

The sound of John's voice behind him makes his blood run cold, and he freezes where he stands. 

John's voice is harsh and cold, like it was standing in Kitty Riley's flat, confronting Jim Moriarty, passing as Richard Brook, and it rocks him to his core. 

He turns around, and his eyes fall on John. He looks angry, blue eyes piercing as he keeps his hands raised up to his head as he walks slowly into the room. Sherlock stares at him in alarm, and he opens his mouth to speak... 

And then he sees the gun. 

Then, he sees a familiar tattoo on the forearm of the person holding it, and while he dreads it, his eyes trail up as the figure enters the kitchen, and once again, like he had in many dreams, he is standing face to face with the man only known to him as The Tall One, who is currently pressing a gun into John Watson's back. 

Sherlock doesn't dare move. 

The man smiles at him in a sickeningly sweet way, then kicks at the back of John's legs, sending the doctor to his knees, and Sherlock jumps forward to catch him, but the man points the gun at the back of John's head, and Sherlock stays.

The Tall One laughs. "You should have never left." He says, accent thick around his words. "Now you're going to make me kill him." 

John's eyes flash to Sherlock's, and he doesn't miss the way John seems to be reassuring him, telling him it's okay, that he'll figure it out. Sherlock, on the other hand, can't stop but tell him how sorry he is, for endangering his life, for not coming back sooner... But he doesn't get the chance to say it out loud. 

"Tell him you love him." The Tall One growls, prodding John with the gun again, making Sherlock look back up. 

"Let him go." He orders, trying to sound brave, for John's sake. "It's me, you want, not him." 

John looks at him in desperation, like he knows exactly what Sherlock plans to say, but Sherlock ignores him.

He's already died for John Watson once. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.

He stares the man down, not even daring to blink. "Kill me." He orders. 

John's eyes are blown wide with panic. 

The man laughs, not lowering the gun. "I plan to." He sneers, his finger curling around the trigger. "But first, I want you to watch." 

And before Sherlock has a second to stop him, a gunshot rings out through 221B, drowning out his screams as John's body crumples to the floor at his feet, his blood spattered all over his feet-

**_________________**

Sherlock awakes from the nightmare with a start, gasping for air as he gazes around at the hospital room ceiling. He sits up straight, sweat trickling down the back of his neck, soaking his curls. Though only mere seconds have passed, he can already feel the nightmare slipping away as he goes to look toward his brother, who is watching him quietly from the chair with an unimpressed look on his face. Sherlock almost laughs at how quickly it brings him back to Earth. 

"Another nightmare you can't remember?" Mycroft guesses. 

Sherlock resists the urge to stick his tongue out at him like a three year old. "Piss off." He grumbles instead, falling back on the pillows. 

Again, Mycroft looks unimpressed. "Everything is ready for you to be moved, we're just waiting on your nurse to get your release papers." The ghost a smile pulls at his brother's face. "She's clever, that one. Out of everyone here, she was the only one who recognized you, and I made it so she was the only one who came in or out. I might have to hire her." He says, almost fondly.

"Oh, I'm sure she'll be thrilled." 

There's a pause in the air, leaning on awkward, until Mycroft shifts awkwardly in his seat and clears his throat. "You should know, I spoke with Mrs. Hudson today." He states.

Sherlock tries to ignore the panicked fluttering of his heart. "Oh? What did you tell her?" 

"The truth, of course." 

The detective stares blankly at his brother for a moment, then looks up at the ceiling. He brings his hands to his face, holding them there like he does when he's thinking. "How did she take that?" He asks. 

Mycroft makes a face. "Well... There was a lot of screaming. Then, once she calmed down and promised to keep quiet, she said she would have the place ready for you." 

That makes him smile. "Good old Mrs. Hudson." He mutters to himself. That woman has always taken care of him, and it makes Sherlock feel a little better about returning home. 

The door opens, and nurse Emi in all her smiling glory comes striding into the hospital room, and waves his release papers around in the air. "You're a free man, Mr. Holmes!" She says cheerfully, handing the forms over to his brother. "And Mycroft, whenever you're ready, there's a car waiting to take you to the airport. Don't worry about the doctor, he's just cranky." She winks at Sherlock, who cracks a smile. 

Mycroft nods to her. "Thank you, Miss. Emilia. You've been incredibly helpful to a delicate situation. Trust that the British government, myself included, will be seeing that you are well taken care of." He promises with as much kindness as he can muster. 

Emi waves him off. "Just get the world's greatest detective get home safely. I expect more blog posts as soon as you're healed." 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and Mycroft looks uncharacteristically amused. 

Minutes later, Mycroft's minions file into the room, and begin to help Sherlock off of his bed and out to the car waiting outside. The walk there is exhausting, but Emi and Mycroft stay by his side the whole time, and just before the doors are shut, the young nurse squeezes his hand with a gentle smile on her face. "Take care of yourself, yeah?" She tells him. 

He nods in a promise, then smirks at his brother over her shoulder. "Be careful, I think my brother's going to try to recruit you." 

Emi laughs, and lets him go. 

He's right, of course, the moment the doors are shut, he sees Mycroft hand the young nurse a card, and they exchange a few words then a handshake, and of course she said yes. Of course. 

When Mycroft gets in the car, Sherlock scowls at his brother. "Stop recruiting people I like into your minions. It's insulting." He grumbles.

The elder Holmes laughs. "I didn't recruit Dr. Watson, if you remember that, brother." 

Sherlock does remember that. 

He thinks back to John at home, kind, protective, loyal John Watson, and smiles fondly. He remembers the sense of pride he felt when he figured out that John had more or less told Mycroft to shove his bribe money up his arse. Their near instantaneous friendship was something that Sherlock looked back on often.

He tries not to think about how much it's probably changed.  

Part of him never wants to find out. 

"You should sleep, brother." Mycroft says, pulling him out of his thoughts. "It's a long way back to London after all." 

Sherlock thinks about his continuous nightmares that occur every time he attempts to sleep, and suppresses a shudder. "I'm not tired." He lies as his turns his gaze to the window. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his brother's concerned stare, and elects to ignore it. He's spent too much time sleeping. And like his brother said, it's a long way back to London after all. So, he buries himself in his Mind Palace, where all of the good thoughts of John Watson lie. It's better than any dream he could ever have. 


End file.
